Synopsis

James Cape has been in love with his mother’s best friend Laurie since James was sixteen and Laurie an inaccessible twenty-six. When he’s turned down flat by the older man just after his nineteenth birthday, James’s best friend Al encourages him to forget Laurie and find someone else. And James tries, he really does. But can he cope with his feelings for Laurie, his best friend’s home-life problems, and the deteriorating health of his father, all at the same time? And will Laurie ever notice the young man who’s right in front of him?

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Meet the Author

P.A. Friday fails dismally to write one sort of thing and, when not writing erotica and erotic romance of all sexualities, may be found writing articles on the Regency period, pagan poetry, or science fiction. She loves wine and red peppers, and loathes coffee and mushrooms.

Friday, July 28, 2017

Ever wanted to spy secretly on other people’s lives?Ken doesn’t have a choice: his student summer job is manning the CCTV screens for the new central London shopping mall. But instead of spotting criminals or vandals, he becomes fascinated by a cute waiter from the local bistro who sneaks out to the backyard for his break—and plays sexy to the camera.Is he an old friend, or just an anonymous exhibitionist? Should Ken be excited by this naughty peepshow, or will people think he’s a voyeuristic pervert? Poor Ken’s confused and thrilled in turn. It’s like living in one of the movies he’s studying at university. He knows the man can’t see him, yet Ken feels a connection of some kind. It all encourages Ken to continue with his guilt-ridden Waiter Watch.

Ken bears the suspense as long as he can, until a chance meeting and an abortive blind date provide the explanation to the secret assignations. But will this guide Ken to a real-life chance of romance?First Edition published by Amber Quill Press/Amber Allure, 2013.

ExcerptKen had to admit he hated his job. With a passion. Or rather, with a slow-burning boredom and distaste. Passion implied some kind of energy—the agony and the ecstasy!—and Ken had none of that left after another night sitting in the small, stuffy room and gazing at a wall of screens.He leaned back in his hard-backed chair, stretched, and yawned. A glance at the clock confirmed it was a good hour until his official break time, when the steroid-enhanced Tomas would reluctantly pause in strutting his security patrol around the shopping centre, and arrive to cover Ken’s post while he went for coffee and a sandwich. Then another two hours until the end of the shift at 2:00 a.m., when old Charlie would shuffle in for duty, complete with his tatty Aran cardigan, his Maeve Binchy paperback, and an oversized thermos of homemade vegetable soup, to take over from Ken until the offices opened.Ken sighed. What a way to spend a Saturday night—or any night, for that matter.Over three hours to go.Over three hours….He yawned again. The screens flickered and settled into a range of views from another angle. There was a bank of them, covering critical points around the shopping centre, and they were manned 24/7. Ken was one of those “manning” people. He was meant to watch the screens closely at all times. The centre was a small one, in Surbiton on the outskirts of London, and couldn’t compete with the massive retail complexes built off the M25 in Essex or central London’s Oxford Street. It was really just a dozen shops hanging out together under the same roof. But these were high-fashion, prestigious-designer stores, full of valuable goods and constantly at threat from thieves, vandals, and general abusers. Or so Ken’s summer-job employers, Safeguard Assured, would have people believe.Ken thought it wouldn’t be so bad if he actually saw something. Look out, it’s beHIND you! He knew it was ludicrous to wish for theft, destruction, or general abuse—whatever that covered—but he’d been working here for over a month now, and he’d seen nothing untoward. Nothing at all. No fights, no malicious damage to the shops or the building, no tanks ramming through the night-time shutters, no intercontinental ballistic missiles shrieking in from the dark night skies above—only twenty-four hours left to protect historic London!—to destroy everything the population held dear….Okay, so his mind was rambling again. His mum always said he had a vivid imagination. He’d chosen well when he took a media and film studies course at Kingston University, because he’d always spent far too much time imagining book and movie quotes around real-life events. Of course, Mum’s respect wasn’t always matched by the rest of the family—Dad said Ken lived in a fantasy world, and his teenage brother, Joe, said he was just a sad bloke. Ken sighed again. He knew he was pretty safe here in the control room—except, of course, from the intercontinental ballistic missile scenario—because he wasn’t expected to leap into personal action if he saw any crime taking place. There’d never been any training session for that, just a brief run-through of the screens and the logging in and out procedures, and a schedule of the night-time shifts. He’d been given a list of contact numbers if he needed help. From the way his boss had wrinkled his nose at that, Ken knew it wouldn’t be welcome if he called up his boss at a quarter to midnight to ask where the milk was for his tea. I’m sorry, caller, there’s no record of that number…. No, the contact numbers were for the duty security guards like Tomas, and also an emergency number to the local police station. That was if something went seriously wrong.Which it never did.No, of course he wasn’t inviting that missile again. But Ken hadn’t seen any action so far except people coming and going at the takeaways and late-night restaurants, which stayed open until the early hours of the morning. He swung aimlessly back and forth on his chair and opened another packet of cheesy snacks. He could feel the coating sticking to his teeth, but at least chewing it off helped to keep him awake. The Lord of the Rings paperback—three books in one, special offer!—had been last week’s additional incentive, but the boxed set of assorted crime thrillers he’d borrowed from Mum this week—murder, intrigue, and suspense from some of Britain’s finest!—hadn’t worked as effectively. Screen-watchers weren’t meant to spend their time with their head in a book—how would they see the incoming missile?—but it was about the only way to keep the boredom at bay.“You should knit,” his mate Simon had suggested. Simon knitted, but not lumpy long scarves or hideously misshapen Christmas gloves like Ken’s gran. Si created cool beanie hats and cotton gilets and wonderful album cover designs on sweaters. He was studying textile design at the same university, with fellow students far more arty than Ken’s peers, judging by their clothing and the bold interior design of their rooms. Ken had tried knitting a hat once—you shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it, right?—and Mum was still using it as a tea cosy. She said the gaps down the side gave the steam somewhere to go. Ken hadn’t battled with knitting needles again—he was happier with a storyboard. Yet where had his first year of film studies taken him? Watching rain fall on the concrete pavement outside a shopping centre for hours at a time. There was irony there, somewhere.He’d tried plenty of things to help pass the time. He played solitaire until he found himself almost homicidal when a three of clubs refused to reveal itself. The book of crosswords had been abandoned at page nine, after he’d expressed his frustration by inserting every obscene word he could think of, whether they fit the grid or not. And his songwriting attempts had never got any further than I woke up this morning before he started salivating for bacon sandwiches and brown sauce. He’d tried sketching out a storyboard for a film project of his own but, unfortunately, Charlie had caught sight of it one night, and now he kept suggesting Ken should remake a couple of Maeve Binchy’s classic stories. Charlie even suggested casting and the songs for the soundtrack. Much as he liked the old codger, Ken now found it less teeth-grinding to keep that work for the privacy of his own room. So he was back to nothing but the screens for distraction.There was a small yard at the back of one of the restaurants where the waiters came out to smoke. It was plumb in the middle of Ken’s central screen. This one was a French bistro, which meant the prices were too high for his student pocket. Spare a coin for a sandwich, sir? He didn’t have sound as well as a view, but he watched the way the waiting staff nodded to each other, laughed, shared matches for the ciggies. There wasn’t much space to move around in the yard, because the wall between the restaurant and the next-door dry cleaners was covered almost entirely with huge, shoulder-high recycling and waste bins. The waiters leaned against the bins or scuffed their shoes on them. Sometimes the chef opened the door from the restaurant and yelled at them to get their arses back to work. Well, Ken couldn’t actually hear the words, but the chef’s face looked flushed and impatient—even in grainy black-and-white—and Ken’s imagination supplied the language. Although the waiters rolled their eyes and mimicked his gestures as soon as he turned his back, they usually stubbed out the cigarettes quickly and shuffled back indoors.Sometimes Ken saw them leaving at the end of their shift from a gate at the farthest point of the yard. It was a shortcut back to the housing estate across the ring road. He had to imagine the gate, because it was out of view of the camera, but the waiters would tumble out of the back door with their coats on and backpacks slung over their shoulders, waving and joking with the new shift who were taking over. The place did breakfasts too. Didn’t it ever close?He’d noticed a group of friends who seemed to work and travel everywhere together—a cluster of students like him, presumably, all dressed in similar hoodies and jeans; two men who were obviously a romantic couple; a mother and daughter who still had a smile for each other after a long night in the kitchen.Ken grimaced. So it had come to this—he was getting familiar with the monochrome faces of people he’d never meet in real life, probably didn’t want to meet, and who probably wouldn’t want to meet him. He didn’t think of them as friends, did he? That’s what his other good mate Robbie said when Ken shared some of his stories at the pub. “You’re not mates with these people, Kenny. That’d be bloody weird.” Everyone around the table agreed with Robbie. In fact, Ken laughed and agreed too.Because that’s not how it was. He preferred to consider the people caught on CCTV as his own private soap opera. Previously, on the Surbiton Spectrum Shopping Centre Security Channel…. The waiters at the restaurant. The foxes that came sniffing around the bins, arrogantly careless of anyone else. The police cars that periodically cruised the front of the centre. The fat man who ran the all-night grocer/newsagents, who took a break every now and then, drained a bottle of cola, and had a thorough scratch of his crotch through trousers shiny with wear. The young couple who stocked up the Moroccan café at weekends and who loitered in the service road behind the shop for a snogging session. The boy would have taken it further; Ken could see his eagerness—and bloody quick hands—but the girl was always looking over her shoulder in case someone caught them.Yes, even outside shopping hours, there was a lot of activity in and around the centre. It wasn’t really what Ken was employed to watch out for, but he reckoned he could weave it into his film projects; he could let it inspire him. Everyone enjoyed people-watching, didn’t they? And his personal soap opera was benign. It wasn’t full of cliché gun battles or car chases. Only sometimes did he feel like a voyeur, but without the sexiness.A waiter ambled out of the French bistro, and Ken’s attention darted back to that screen. The young man moved quickly—maybe he only had a few minutes’ break—and made for the far side of the yard. That corner was partially hidden by two of the largest bins and out of reach of the security lights. The only CCTV screen that covered it was one of the oldest and with the poorest picture. Sometimes one of the waiting staff would sneak behind these particular bins, and Ken assumed it was because they didn’t want to be seen, either by CCTV or from inside the restaurant. Was that what this man was doing? He had his back to Ken, hiding what he was up to. Was he smoking? Taking drugs? Ken had seen it on other evenings. Was he meant to report that kind of thing, or just crimes that involved damage to the centre itself? And how hypocritical would he be, when he’d smoked more than a few things in his time?He peered more closely and wished there was a zoom feature. He didn’t like to touch the controls too much, since the time he’d fiddled with the brightness, messed up screens one to four, and spent three hours looking at static—I’m breaking up! I’m breaking up!—until Charlie arrived. The old man had shrugged at Ken’s apology, turned the control button to its fullest point, thumped somewhere under the desk, and the screens had all popped back into focus. Luckily, of course, the missile hadn’t arrived at that very time, though Ken rather thought there’d be other clues if the building were attacked from space.The man in the yard turned his head, and Ken caught sight of his shadowed profile. He wasn’t smoking; he was sucking juice from a carton. A new employee? Ken didn’t think he’d noticed him before. Tall, lithe body in tight black trousers and a white shirt that stretched taut over his pecs, short-cropped dark hair, prominent but attractive nose. Ken couldn’t see his eyes because he was looking down at the carton, but the heavy lids were sexy. Even though the picture was blurred, Ken could tell that clearly enough. And the way the man’s lips tightened on the carton straw was…. Be still, my beating heart. Ken laughed at himself a little bitterly. His poor old dick hadn’t hardened that quickly for a long time. He shifted on the seat, trying to get comfortable again. He really needed to get back out in the dating game again. Oh wait, first he had to find the time to date, didn’t he? But if and when he did, this was just the kind of look he’d always liked, ever since school days, however shallow Mum would say it was to judge a book by its cover alone….And then the guy turned towards the camera so that one side of his face eased out of the shadows—and he winked.Huh? Ken leaned forwards in his chair, startled, but the moment was gone. The waiter turned on his heel, threw his empty carton into the bin, and sauntered back inside the restaurant.

Author BioClare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters. Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind . . . she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.All the details and free fiction are available at her website. Visit her today and say hello!Website: http://www.clarelondon.comBlog: http://clarelondon.livejournal.comFacebook: http://www.facebook.com/clarelondonFacebook chat: https://www.facebook.com/groups/clarelondoncalling/Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/clare_londonGoodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/clarelondonAmazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/clarelondon

BLURBIn Betwixt and Between, Ian and Zeke fought a battle against the queen of the dark realm in order to be together. Now, just when they think they might settle into as normal a life as elves living among humans might be able to expect, a new enemy threatens to tear them apart. While Zeke helps the shaman Alistair in his hunt for an elusive mermaid, Ian is called to confront a wicked nymph preying on tourists along Seattle's waterfront. Zeke and Ian soon discover that the defeated Queen Ysolde has spread her evil into the sea realms, and danger lurks beneath every wave. But it's too late to stop an escalating series of confrontations that lead to disappearances, death and the possible end of light in this world.As Ysolde plots revenge and a mysterious prince seeks to win Ian for himself, the ancient war between light and dark sweeps Ian and Zeke into its maelstrom of hate, testing their trust for each other to the utmost.

EXCERPT“Someone has to restore the balance between light and dark energy. I’m one of the last of my kind. I might be the only one who can do it.” Ian slid his hands off the table and rested them on his thighs. He expected derisive laughter from Zeke or a gentle clucking accompanied by a sad shake of the head. Sure, Ian Evers, nobody reporter for a gossip rag, half-breed elf, was going to save the world and fix what Ysolde spent centuries destroying. Zeke’s face remained impassive, but a storm brewed in his eyes. “You’re not the last of the liosa. Others escaped.” “I might as well be. They’re all gone, run off to hide out beyond…” Ian waved a hand in the air, signifying that remote world he sometimes glimpsed when they made love. Glaring out the windows into their backyard, Zeke breathed deeply but said nothing. Ian continued. “If I start with some miniscule adjustments, push back against the places the dark realm has encroached on this world, maybe some liosa will come out of hiding.” “They won’t like you being with a svarta,” Zeke said. “That’s their problem. I know I might never be buddies with other liosa, but we could use their help, right? If Ysolde is plotting to retake her throne like you say, and the svarta are behind her—” “Only some of them. We don’t need anyone’s help.” “Yes, we do. We never would’ve defeated Ysolde without Alistair’s and Cleona’s help.” Zeke leaned forward, his gaze now focused intently on Ian. “We’re stronger now. We need to concentrate on solidifying our connection and making sure no one can break it.” “You think someone could?” Ian asked. Surprised by the fear he saw lurking behind his lover’s composure, he instinctively put his hands on the table and reached for Zeke’s. Zeke allowed his hands to be held without reacting. “You couldn’t track me in the dark realm,” Zeke said. “I’m afraid the same would be true if you ever go off into the realm of light. I’ll lose you.”

BOOK ONETitle: Betwixt and Between

Release Date: June 29th 2015

Genre: Paranormal MM Romance, Fantasy

BLURBReporter Ian Evers, obsessed with magical creatures since childhood, never experiences satisfying proof that the magical realm actually exists until he falls into an entrapment spell set by a handsome but dangerous elf. Barely escaping with his soul intact, Ian is able to undo the hex, but he can't escape the very real infatuation he's developed for the fierce, alluring elf.Ezekiel Stormshadow is a svarta, a dark elf who serves the queen of the dark realm. The realm of darkness needs the power of light to survive, and while hunting the last few magical beings on earth, Ezekiel discovers Ian, a light elf who's unaware of his true nature and ripe for the plucking. Their brief encounter awakens a great hunger in Ezekiel, and he's determined to feast on the light elf's power and body before the queen intervenes and claims Ian for herself.Ian knows only he can save Ezekiel from the grasp of the dark queen. Driven apart by the ancient imbalance between the dark and light realms, an evil queen starved for power, and their fear of each other, Ian and Ezekiel are relentlessly drawn together even though their union might destroy them both.

Alexis Duran was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. At the University of Oregon, her fascination with people and relationships led her to major in Sociology, but her main love has always been creative writing. She has worked in museums, in fashion, in finance and film production. Her favorite job so far was Administrative Assistant in a haunted Victorian Mansion. She's had several short stories published in the mystery, horror and literary genres, and one contemporary fantasy novel. Her fiction has won several awards including the Rupert Hughes Award from the Maui Writers Conference. She's thrilled to enter the realm of erotic romance with the publication of her novels Touch of Salar, Blood of Salar and To Catch A Threeve. She's is currently working on the next in the Masters and Mages series and several other m/m erotic novellas.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

Violinist Frederick Tremblay is one of the biggest names in classical music. When it comes to work, he’s all in. There is only time for music and working to make his dreams come through but none for love. Hell, he barely makes time to eat. When he agrees to play at an acquaintance son’s birthday party he figured he’d go in, make his rounds then go home—but his plans change when he walks into the path of Vaughan Singleton.Vaughan “Sin” Singleton is the disowned heir to a candy empire. After he came out, his life basically ended and he had to start over from scratch. Joining the military was the thing to save him and also the one thing that brought him to his knees. Forced to retire, slinging alcohol wasn’t his dream but he needs something to pay the bills and to assist with easing back into civilian life. When he meets Frederick, Vaughan isn’t looking for love, but one unguarded moment changes everything.From different sides of the track, Frederick and Vaughan have much to teach each other. But what is to become of their new romance when Frederick’s quirks come to light and Vaughan’s brother shows up?Excerpt“Way to step out, man.” Deena giggled. Frederick ignored her comment and put up his free hand. There was a man behind the bar, but he had his back turned and right now, no one else was there working with him. He looked to be busy drying glasses or perhaps washing. Though Frederick didn’t want to disturb him, he really wanted something else to quench his thirst. “I’m sorry, excuse me, sir.” The man turned around and approached them. “What can I get you?”Frederick eyed the mature gentleman in front of him, taking in his features. Dark brown eyes, hair cut low with a beard and well trimmed mustache. His lips were thick. Kissable. Frederick loved a man with distinct features. “Oh … um… I’d like a soda. Perhaps a 7-Up or Sprite if you have it.” Frederick continued staring, clutching his violin case tightly in his hands.Deena seemed to pick up that he was tongue tied. “And I’ll have a beer. Heineken if you have it?”“Heineken for the lady and a—um—soda for the gentleman,” the bartender said. There was a slightly hitch in the way he said soda, almost as if in disbelief. He then focused his attention on Deena. “Would you like the bottle or a glass?”“The bottle is fine. I’m a simple kind of gal.” She giggled. Frederick smiled at the man, still holding onto his violin as if it were a life raft. He wondered why the bartender seemed put off by his request. “Something funny about 7-Up or Sprite?”The bartender eyed him with his head tilted slightly to the side. “Oh nothing.” He spoke, his lips forming over the two words making them escape his being easily. “Nothing at all.” Without another word, he walked over for a clean glass that sparkled. They had the word Prince’s with a crown on the side in golden letters. Using large hands, the bar man operated the tap to expertly fill the glass with Sprite before grabbing a green bottle of Heineken from a cooler and prying off the cap. When he returned he set the glass before Frederick without a word but offered Deena a smile with her drink. “Ma’am?”“Thanks.” Deena batted her eyelashes at him. Flirtatiously. Frederick suppressed a growl and eyed his glass, watching the bartender walk away again. For some reason, it bothered him that the guy appeared to be bothered by his choice of beverage. “I don’t drink alcohol, by the way. I’m sort of boring. The fact I play violin is the most interesting thing about me.” Frederick set Gabriel beside him in a vacant chair. He lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed slowly, still gazing at the handsome gentleman working the bar. Deena nearly spat out her beer, and she nudged him with her elbow.“To each their own,” the bartender said. “Did anyone let Stuart know you’re here?” Frederick finished his Sprite, still gawking at the man. “Yes, the hostess did. I suppose she’ll be back shortly. Do you mind if I ask your name?” Frederick thought he’d go for broke even though it was quite possible he’d be barking up the wrong tree. A part of him said he wasn’t, or perhaps he hoped that to be true. Deena gasped next to him, seemingly in surprise. The bartender moved to stand directly across from Frederick, braced his elbows into the bar and leaned in. “If you wish to tell my boss I’ve been an ass to you,” he said, his voice warm and rough. “You don’t need my name for that. All you have to do is tell him the black guy at the bar. I’m the only one here.”Frederick shivered at the sound of the man’s voice and how he leaned in so close to him. Instead of shying away as he usually did, he decided to play the game. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all. More like, I wanted to know your name so I know the lovely man that is taking such good care of us tonight and, maybe might like to have a drink with me after my performance?” Frederick knew he was going for broke. Gazing at the bartender, Frederick had every intention on finding out something about him, even if it was the disappointing news he’d dread. “I see.” The barman licked his lips. “I’m working. Drinking on the job is strictly prohibited, and besides—you’re not a fan of alcohol.”Frederick sighed inwardly. He looked to Deena for help, but she only kept drinking her beverage.

Author BiosMichael Mandrake pens complex characters already comfortable with their sexuality. Through these, he builds worlds not centered on erotica but rather the mainstream plots we might encounter in everyday life through personal experiences or the media.Website - https://michaelmandrake.wordpress.com

Nineteen-year-old varsity swimmer Maxime Tremblay is leery of the string of fatal accidents involving female athletes, but after she thwarts an attack, she can no longer ignore the connection between the victims.

Special Agent Ross Sullivan investigates the deadly events on campus only to discover they are not accidents, the athletes are not targeted at random, and the killer is only warming up.

To protect his only witness, he goes undercover as Maxime's boyfriend, but as pretense and reality begin to blur, Sullivan faces the dilemma of putting her in harm’s way to stop the killings.

Excerpt:

Sully hadn’t visited a campus since his rookie years with the Drug Enforcement Agency. One of the police reports had contained Ms. Tremblay’s statement on this morning attack along with some personal notes from the investigating officer related to her whereabouts. From those notes, Sully had charted a crude schedule of her activities.

The clock on his dashboard indicated six forty-five. According to his best estimate, the young woman he sought should be at the pool for another fifteen minutes.

He pulled into the outdoor portion of the Sport Center pay parking lot then walked toward the front door.

As he approached, a wave of young men and women exited the premises. They all wore the same purple and gray jacket with the word swimming written in purple over the gray stripe. Concentrating his attention on the names written underneath swimming, Sully searched the jackets for something resembling Maxime or Tremblay. When he spotted a Splash chatting with a Torpedo, it occurred to him there might be a flaw in his search pattern.

The C on Torpedo’s sleeve prompted Sully to intercept the tall and muscular black swimmer as he walked away from the conversation.

“Captain?”

The man abruptly stopped then turned around. “Yes?”

“Hi, my name is Falcon. I’m a friend of Maxime Tremblay.” In order not to attract undue attention to his investigation, he used his middle name. “Do you know if she’s still inside?”

Though Sully didn’t consider himself short at six feet, the swimmer towering over him by three or four inches cast an intimidating aura. The unconcealed curiosity shimmering in Torpedo’s dark eyes added a surreal quality to the encounter.

“Nice meeting you, Falcon. Ursa should be out shortly. She was talking to Kenney when I left. See you around.”

Ursa?

The swimmer jogged away before Sully had time to question him further, or thank him.

Along the sidewalk rested an unoccupied bench from where he could enjoy an obstructed view of the door. Seated with one arm over the back slate, Sully resumed his search for Maxime, Tremblay, Ursa, or any derivative.

The sun wouldn’t set for another forty minutes, but a chilly breeze already transformed every breath Sully took into a cool white mist. A large orange maple leaf swirling with red streaks whirled in the air then landed on the bench next to him. When he picked it up, he spied flaming curls out of the corner of his eyes.

An attractive young woman had left the building. A mane of fiery hair bounced over the purple and gray bag slung over her shoulder. The letter C was embroidered on the sleeve of her team jacket.

As Sully waited for her to switch direction so he could see the back of her jacket, he noticed the nickname on her bag. Ursa. He leapt to his feet, and within a few strides, he caught up with her.

“Maxime? Maxime Tremblay?”

Her body tensed. She glared at him, but she kept marching away. The fury burning in her eyes told him that despite her small built, she would put up a fight if he invaded her personal space.

Thread carefully. The warning resurfaced in his mind. Livingstone had obviously been apprised of Tremblay’s temperament, but for reasons Sully couldn’t fathom, she’d chosen not to elaborate.

“I see you prefer walking while talking. Very good idea.” Keeping pace with her was exhilarating. “Where are we heading exactly?”

She threw another dark look in his direction. “You? I have no clue. Me? I’m going to eat.”

As angry as she appeared to be, she still answered and without yelling. It was a short step in the right direction.

“I’m Special Agent Ross Sullivan.” He showed her his badge. “I’m investigating this morning attack at the pool.”

“Really? With your suit, your tie, your coat, and your demeanor, you could have fooled me.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. “For the record, could you please confirm you are indeed Maxime Tremblay? I’d like to be sure I’m insulted by the right person.”

“Yes, you are. And for the same record, Special Agent Ross Sullivan, I’ve had enough aggravation dealing with law enforcement to last me a lifetime. Goodbye.”

The uncanny feeling that something regarding Ms. Tremblay was indeed missing from the police reports sprouted inside his mind like poisonous weeds.

“If by law enforcement you mean the police, I couldn’t agree more. Unofficially that is. I pulled all my hair out this afternoon reading the reports.”

Stopped dead in her tracks on the sidewalk, she spun on her heels. “Okay, Agent Wisecracker, let me see that badge of yours again.”

He showed it to her and was pleased when she eyed it circumspectly. Earning her trust was an important step toward gathering the right information.

“So, Special Agent Ross Falcon Sullivan, what do you want to know that I haven’t already told the genius at police headquarters? Or are you here to arrest me for murder or attempted murder?”

The reference stumped him. “Why would I want to arrest you?”

A loud ominous sigh escaped her lips. “Yesterday afternoon, I was accused of murder after I told the genius in uniform that Manuela--she’s the runner who died yesterday morning in case you didn’t know--that I had proof she was lured into the wood and that her death looked nothing like an accident. Then this morning, I was accused of attempted murder by the same genius after Sonja’s attacker vanished into thin air. I was even warned not to leave the campus until Sonja corroborated my version of the attack.”

Wow. Talk about antagonizing your only witness. That police officer deserves a commendation for stupidity.

No wonder the young woman facing him with her arms crossed over her chest was upset. And no wonder his supervisor advised him to thread carefully. There had been no statement from Tremblay, or from anyone else, attached to that runner’s report, and no mention of accusations, but Agent Lucas had to have said something to Livingstone. That had to be the reason she suspected some statements were missing.

“For what it’s worth, Ms. Tremblay, that genius was an idiot. Unofficially that is.”

***
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